


Shell Games

by inkystake



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: The Golden Trio, thieves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-22
Updated: 2018-02-22
Packaged: 2019-03-22 13:56:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13765584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inkystake/pseuds/inkystake
Summary: A valuable artifact disappears from the Museum of Ancient Magics in Versailles. Fleur Delacour comes to Hogwarts with two objectives: (1) enter the Triwizard and earn bragging rights for Beauxbatons, (2) find the English thief who stole her great-uncle's last masterpiece, the “Beauty in a Woodland Vale” which used her grandmother as a model.





	Shell Games

Hermione Granger slipped into the compartment she knew held her best friends, her brothers in arms, her partners in crime. A dark head lifted as the door clacked shut behind her.

Harry folded the French magical paper he'd been reading and afforded her his full attention, eyes bright with mischief. Summer with Sirius Black certainly had been good for him. “How was your summer, My?”

The paper he'd put down was not very subtly folded to an article on the theft of several valuable antiquities from the Museum of Ancient Magics in Versailles. She grinned at him. “It was a learning experience.”

“Oho?” came the slightly muffled voice from the figure lying sprawled on the other bench. Ron lifted the old-fashioned bowler that he'd been using as a deterrent against the light and peered at her from under it. “What'd you learn then?”

“I learned that spell glass can be cut by simple, non-magical industrial diamond, for one,” she answered, slapping his booted feet off the cushioned bench as she passed to take her seat by Harry.

“Oi.” He grimaced at her but didn't put his feet back up again. “So on a scale of single constable running after you to continent-wide manhunt, how bad is the damage?”

She huffed at him. “That was one time.”

“It was the philosopher's stone! Good gadfly, woman.”

“It wasn't.”

“They thought it was.”

“Bully for them. Flamel is an ass.”

Harry quickly waved his wand at the door.

“Ron out and out admits I stole the alleged Stone and you don't do anything; I mention Flamel and it's a privacy ward seventh-years can't set up?”

“I carved the runes earlier, so try and get this compartment when we use the train next, alright? Don't want to do it again.” Harry shrugged. “And hell yeah, the old ghoul gives me the creeps.”

They all shuddered in varying degrees of fearfulness. They met Flamel at the start of the summer and they all never wanted to even think about meeting him again. He was nothing like the persona Dumbledore portrayed. There was no kind smile or twinkling eye. He was the personification of the grim and ancient sorcerer from all the muggle fairy stories.

“Still haven't told us how France was.” Ron said after a while.

“Read the paper sometime,” Hermione snarked.

“I tried. My translation spell's a bit wonky still.”

Hermione sighed. “I got a few good things. Three lovely landscapes and a non-moving portrait I snagged at the last minute. Two vases that my mother loved. The good jewelry was really high security so that part was a disappointment. It's not so bad for my first heist in the magical world.”

“They'll probably up security, so you might not get those jewelry pieces though,” Ron pointed out.

Hermione bit her lip. “There's a few ways I can get in again,” she muttered. “Especially if they retool everything.”  
“They're making a big deal over the portrait you 'snagged' as you left.” Harry had returned to his paper. His reading French was better than his spoken, so he was the one to buy the paper in Diagon.

“Oh? What's so great about it?” She had checked the frame for compulsions, potions, trackers and every conceivable spell that might be detrimental to her. Because it wasn't an animated portrait (odd for a wizarding work), she even carefully did a diagnostic on the actual canvas. There was nothing there but preservation spells.

“It's famous.”

She rolled her eyes at her dark-haired friend. “It was in a museum – one of the most important museums of European wizarding world even. Of course it's famous.” Then she frowned. “You know there are only six magical museums in the entirety of Europe? It's ridiculous. The old lines hoard all the wizarding art and the ancient books in their moldy old homes, no wonder they think they're the be all and end all of wizarding culture.”

“We'll have a time liberating it all from all the oppressive, pureblood manors then.”

Hermione beamed at Ron. He reddened a little and turned to Harry. “So what about this famous painting then.”  
“It's called _Beauty in a Woodland Vale_ and -”

“No kidding? Wicked! Bill was just talking about it during the World Cup. It's a Veela painting. He says it's worth more than a small castle.”

Harry growled at them. “You know, if you both keep interrupting me, we'll probably be seeing the gendarmerie before I can tell you why.”

Okay, that was serious. Hermione frowned, flitting through all her methods and her after-job checklist. “I'm pretty sure I checked for traps, magical and not.”

“It's not so direct,” Harry sighed. “It's just really important because of the painter and his family. _Beauty in a Woodland Vale_ , last masterpiece by Luc Georges Delacour, Comte du Roussillon, using his sister-in-law Fernante Pelletier as a model.”

“And?”

“Fernante Pelletier is the mother of the present head of the French Magical Special Forces, who is cousin to the present Count Roussillon. They really really want it back. There's a three thousand galleon reward.”

Ron whistled, impressed. “That's more than most people make in a year.”

Hermione relaxed. That wasn't so bad. “It's not like I'm going to sell it anytime soon.”

“Really?” Ron studied her.

“What?” she asked suspiciously.

“You know it's cursed, right?”

“What?!”

“Bill said the reason it went into a museum was that none of the family could hold onto it for long. He didn't go into detail about the curse, but he said it's the reason the man who painted it died. His son lived long enough to marry and sire an heir. The painting went to a cousin. That cousin died too. So they donated it to the museum.”

There was a small silence. Then Harry stood. “I'm going to subtly interrogate Malfoy."

Ron snerked. "He should be shocked you're seeking him out this year."

"If I'm lucky he'd keel over from my glorious presence.”

Ron stretched his back as Harry opened the compartment door. “Wish me luck. I'm throwing myself into a flock of ravens without a safety net.”

“There's a Hufflepuff prefect who transferred in from Beauxbatons,” Hermione said.

The compartment emptied in three seconds, its occupants headed out to self-appointed information-gathering missions.

* * *

 Exiting from different train cars, the three converged on the last carriage and stood in silence. They were all staring at the skeletal, armored, bat-winged horses that were harnessed to the carriages.

“I'm pretty sure those weren't there last year,” Ron finally stated.

“So I'm not the only one who can see them?” Harry sighed in relief. “I thought I flushed out all those hallucinogens from this summer.”

Hermione favored him with a Look. “Do I need to talk to Sirius? Because I'm pretty sure I can get him at least three months in a non-magical prison on trumped-up charges. Grandfather was saying you should visit anyway.”

“No. Apparently the welcoming drinks in magical Amsterdam are spiked.”

A discreet cough interrupted Hermione's reply. The trio looked up to see Neville smiling at them shyly. “Ah,” he said. “According to my uncle, that's only when you enter through the more...notorious entrance. The normal entrance has the official customs people.”

“Hi Neville,” Ron grinned. “You're saying Harry was smuggled into magical Amsterdam?”

“It's the entrance formerly used for war-brides,” the boy was now redder than a chili tomato.

Ron guffawed. “Wait, you mean it's the one that leads directly into, er, Petticoat Lane?”

Harry flushed. Hermione ticked up a curious brow. Her voice was remarkably level. “How precisely did you know that, Ronald?”

“Eavesdropping on Charlie and the twins.” Ron was unrepentant.

“Let's just get in, alright?” Harry grabbed the side of the carriage and hoisted himself up, willing the red in his face to recede. This summer had been a learning experience too but thankfully Sirius only passed through the Lane without doing anything but ogle the...offered wares.

The three arranged themselves on the bench that faced the front, not wanting to turn their backs to the creepy bat-horses that passed for draft animals in the wizarding world. It was a tight fit, what with four people on the bench.

Neville took the seat opposite them, bemused.

Ron was the first to talk. He turned to the fourth person on their bench, squashed against the side of the carriage. “Er, hi Looney. Sorry about this.”

“It's alright. But you do know the thestrals won't hurt you?” She serenely stood and sat beside Neville, back to the not-horses.

“The what?”

“Thestrals,” she repeated and lifted her head from the magazine that she had her nose stuck into the whole time. “Can you see them, Harry Potter, Hermione Granger, Ronald?”

Neville cringed a little.

Hermione blinked at him. “I take it that's not a polite question?”

“Oh, I apologize,” the blonde girl said. “You can see thestrals if you've seen death. My mother died when I was nine. I saw it.”

“I'm sorry,” Harry said to the startingly blunt girl. He didn't know what was worse: to not remember your parents or to have known and loved them before you lost them. “It must be hard.”

They lapsed into awkward silence.

“I...my great-uncle died three years ago,” Neville hesitantly broke the silence. The silence grew even more awkward. The three didn't look at each other, all pale. Admitting they all saw a werewolf and a transformed wolfhound animagus savage a fully de-ratted Wormtail at the end of last year was...it was not to be spoken.

“We...we saw someone taken by the dementors last year,” Ron finally said. Technically it was true. Moony had thrown the dying Pettigrew's corpse to the dementor that was closing in on Sirius. It had Kissed him, though Ron wasn't sure if the traitor was alive or not by then.

“So,” Hermione said with forced cheer to the blonde girl. “Your name is...?” Because it definitely wasn't Looney, no matter what Ron said.

“Luna Lovegood, Hermione Granger.”

“Just Hermione is fine. Nice to meet you.”

The girl peered at her over the top of the magazine, which was upside-down come to think of it. “Most people don't say that.”

Not to me, were the unspoken words. God, this entire carriage was a downer. What else could go wrong? Hermione wanted to lounge in the Room of Requirement (they had abused Dobby's knowledge of the castle last year) and talk to her friends about ziplines and nimble fingers and ward-breakers. She quirked a smile at the younger girl. “Well, I'm saying it. So are Harry and Ron.” She nudged them.

“Hello Luna, nice to meet you,” Harry said obediently.

“Hey Looney, OW! Luna, been a while,” Ron grunted with a glare at the girl sitting beside him innocently.

“You know each other?”

“We're neighbors,” Luna murmured.

“The Lovegoods live in this completely awesome house a few hills over from the Burrow. It looks like a chess castle.”

From the brief glance the other girl sent Ron, the 'Looney' thing was forgiven with the redhead's enthusiastic description of the Rookery. This time.

Hermione started a conversation on creatures, seeing the animal on the cover of Luna's magazine, and was promtly bewildered, bothered, confused at the placid commentary Luna disgorged on all manner of creatures Hermione had never heard of before. The boys amused themselves with giggling quietly at the many perplexed, befogged, and occasionally stupefied looks on the face of the 'smartest witch of their age'.

 

* * *

 The last several years, the three Gryffindors had sniffed out a number of castle secrets and one of their very favorites was a room not even the Weasley twins knew about.

Harry looked at his friends in horror. “We can't fit under the Cloak anymore!”

“Keep it down!” hissed Ron, with a glance in the direction of Gryffindor's Fat Lady. It was still early enough that the prefects were making rounds.

Harry straightened to full height. Then he looked at Hermione then Ron, his face falling into lines of greater horrification. “How is it that I'm the shortest! This can't be happening!”

“You've been short since first year, get used to it.” Hermione whispered heatedly as she attempted to match her ungainly steps with Ron's gawky shuffling. Both had their knees bent in awkward directions in order that their shoes not be seen walking the corridors without bodies attached. Harry was at the center, the only one upright of the three.

“Yeah but then you guys were short too!”

Ron shoved them all into the Room of Requirement with a relieved sigh. "You two are short. I deeply apologize for this traumatic piece of information but it's the truth."

Hermione glared at him and his scarecrow-like limbs but said nothing. She turned to Harry. “I think there are growth potions you can take.”

“Don't be too optimistic though,” Ron tacked on. “For best results, you should take them before you're eleven. The before-seventeen ones are trickier and they only add on an inch or two mostly, three if you're lucky.”

“How did you know that?”

“Bill got me and Ginny to take the potions before I came to Hogwarts. He spent his first bonus on them.”

“Ha!” Harry pointed at him accusingly. “I knew it.”

Hermione perked up. “And the results? As compared to those who didn't take them?”

Ron shrugged. Hermione sighed at him in exasperation and stalked to her favorite chair, thinking of books on growth potions at the room. A stack of thin, leather journals was waiting for her when she sat down. She promptly buried her face in one of them.

Ron looked at Harry. “Chess game?”

Harry stepped toward the chess-table in agreement. The pieces waved at them in anticipation. Hermione was going to be awhile anyway. They could talk about the painting later. And the Triwizard Tournament that Dumbledore had mentioned.  
At least this year, they had warning of the trouble they were going to be dragged into. Sirius had already been informed.

The trio settled into deeply comfortable cushions and relaxed for the first time in days.

* * *

 Hermione dropped down on the couch beside the chess-table on their third game. “You guys got a plan?”

They smirked at her over two queens duking it out in the middle of the board. Careless, that. “A few.”

* * *

Fleur Delacour was interested, if not quite impressed, with Hogwarts Castle. All the magical schools were isolated and their location heavily protected. Seeing one if you were not a student, a teacher, or involved in the administration of a school was hardly ever heard of. So having free reign to explore the castle was a once in a lifetime chance for her.

It was magnificent. Dank and cold in places, dusty in others, but magnificent.

The people there were another matter. Then again, they did not have the immunity her classmates had built up over the years. She was thankful that the seventh-year classes were small and that the teachers were strict.

She was happy her Potions, Transfiguration, and Charms classes were as good as the hype generated by the teachers' reputations suggested. Unfortunately, there were no Alchemy classes at Hogwarts, despite Dumbledore being Flamel's former collaborator. She was satisfied with her Runes and Arithmancy classes as well. The Arithmancy was not as good as Professor Martine in Beauxbatons but the Hogwarts Runes professor was a genius. Fleur had to set up a dictaquill to catch every tangent the professor absently went into. Sometimes, the topic they ended on was so far from the professor's distributed syllabus and likely eons beyond seventh-year level but it was all incredibly interesting.

As far as academia was concerned, it wasn't so bad.

“What do you think of the French champion?”

Fleur paused at the window overlooking a closed courtyard. As there was nobody there, it was likely that the speakers were above her.

“You mean besides her name? Who gives their child such a stereotypical name anyway?”

“Not everyone likes complicated names, Hermione.”

“My name is not complicated, Ronald.”

“Hah.”

“It is, actually.”

Fleur stirred. The third voice that joined was familiar. Where had she heard it? If only so she would know who was making fun of her father's naming sense. She was the only one allowed to mock her own name.

“You're one to talk, Haremakhet.”

“Oi, shhhh!”

The first two giggled. “Honestly, Harry, it's a good thing no one but your parents knows your full name.”

“And then I had to show you two idiots,” groaned the third. “When did I become something to mock?”

The girl laughed. “Are you still going on about Fleur Delacour calling you a little boy? Well, compared to Krum and Diggory...”

Fleur's brows lifted. Of course, the voice belonged to Harry Potter.

“Arrgh! Well, great. Not only do I have to compete in the stupid thing, everyone I have to compete against is apparently fodder for the wet dreams of every witch and wizard in Western Europe. This can't be happening.”

“Anything on getting you out yet?”

“No. Apparently Moody was right, binding magical contract. Sirius is looking into loopholes. So far, he says I could show up and technically throw the tasks.”

“And sink your reputation into the crapper for all time.”

The girl hummed. “After the first task, backing out would also brand you a coward for life.”

“The Boy-Who-Flopped.”

“You're not helping, Ronald.”

“So you're saying we have to do this?”

“We always knew that.”

“Yeah, why are we even talking about this?”

“What were we supposed to be talking about?”

“Something we're not supposed to be talking about here.”

“Speaking of Delacours, did you know there's one on the third floor? Just before Fluffy's former corridor.”

“How do you even know that, Harry?”

“I got bored. Also, the signature almost takes up all the lower right of the painting. What the hell is that about, I ask.”

The voices faded. Fleur walked forward, thoughts racing. Did she hear correctly or was she simply suspicious of an innocent conversation? She knew the Delacour painting on the third floor, of course. It was one of the first sights she sought out when she arrived.

But...were they talking about _Beauty in a Woodland Vale_? The third floor painting, _Tristan and Isolde_ , would certainly not warrant secrecy as it had been willed to Hogwarts decades ago by another of her paternal ancestors. Still, though the _Beauty_ was certainly talked about after it's disappearance, why would three children need secrecy to discuss it?

They might not be referencing the _Beauty_ , but what other painting associated with the Delacours would be so discussed at the moment? Her great-uncle had a number of famous paintings of course but this summer had been all about the _Beauty_. It was possible that she was hearing things. But if the three fourteen-year olds had information that would help return the painting, she had to learn more. Harry Potter. Hermione. Ronald. She had three names. It would not be difficult to listen to the gossip.

She flipped her hair over a shoulder and smiled an approaching boy, one of the same table she and her school had sat down with, a Ravenclaw. His steps faltered as he smiled back widely. No reason not to start now.

**Author's Note:**

> This fic short was brought about by this statement:  
> In 1927 Gentleman James Granger conned three marks simultaneously using the Spanish Prisoner scam.  
> \- Hustle Season 7 ep 1


End file.
